If he had ever had a son, it would have been hard not to have named him Uncial. Poor kid. 

Not that there had been much risk of that: “cal­lig­ra­ph­er” had nev­er been a par­tic­u­lar­ly sexy job title at any point on human his­to­ry, least of all ten years into the third Chris­t­ian mil­len­ni­um. He was forty-two now, and the only curves he had ever spent inti­mate time with were the grace­ful curves of his Car­olin­gian majuscules.

For the past five years or so he rarely left the stu­dio. The cot against the far wall, the camp stove in the cor­ner, even the pen of geese out­side for quills — there was no real need for him to leave. But every day, at least once, he still won­dered: won­dered what it would have been like to not have been alone.

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